


Play Time

by GeniaTheParadox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Dom!Moriarty, F/M, Irene likes it when Jim scares her, Jim likes when Irene is scared, Knifeplay, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Spanking, sub!Irene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4340594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeniaTheParadox/pseuds/GeniaTheParadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Alder would never give up the power to just anyone, but Jim Moriarty knows what she likes.</p>
<p>(reposting oldies because my laptop is broken)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Time

**Author's Note:**

> I published this about two years ago on my ff.net account and completely forgot about it. I think it's one of the only BBC Sherlock fics I've written that isn't Johnlock, and... wow. It's just alarming. I apologise in advance for the direction this smut goes in. I mean, there's a glimpse of romance near the end, but mostly it's just... the roughest sex I have ever written. So yeah. I've tried to tag it accordingly, but still. 
> 
> Brace yourselves.

In every aspect of her life, she was in control. To have all of the power in her hands was the ultimate aphrodisiac for Irene Adler, and she didn't give up that power to just anyone.

_Play time, sexy – JM x_

A shiver ran down Irene's spine as she sat in the back of her town car. She knew the moment she got home he'd be waiting in her room, waiting impatiently. No one else could do this to her, make her feel this vulnerable with just a few simple words in a text message. It shouldn't be so easy, but then again, the normal rules didn't apply to him.

Her driver finally stopped, and it was with tentative steps that she entered her house. She was nervous and excited, trembling slightly with anticipation. She still had the marks on her skin from the last time her had wanted to play, marks she had been careful to cover up. That was his favourite part of it all, knowing that once he left she'd still be covered in his bruises and scratches and welts, his marks of ownership that would take days to fade. And once they faded she knew he would be back soon, back to mark her once more as his own.

And, sure enough, there he was in her bedroom in his sharp Westwood suit, looking for all the world like he owned the place. When he looked at her with that piercing stare he didn't so much undress her with his eyes as strip her bare and take her.

"You could look a teensy bit more pleased to see me, my dear," he said with a smirk. "There's no use in pretending like you don't enjoy my little visits."

His presence sapped away her usual confidence, making her shrink into herself.

"And what makes you think I'm not pleased to see you, Jim?" she asked, wishing that she could have kept her voice steady.

He chuckled as he slowly walked towards her, his unwavering stare scorching her skin, until he was just inches away from her. His hand wrapped around her wrist in a vice-like grip that made her wince.

"Aww," he cooed. "You're so  _cute_  when you're scared. It's worth playing with you just to see that frightened look on your face, sweetheart."

She really was frightened. She never really knew where she stood with him. That glint in his eye unnerved her, like he might suddenly get bored and decide to kill her just for fun. His hand twisted painfully around her wrist until her knees buckled from the agony.

"Ahh, Jim,  _please_..." she gasped.

"Oooh, the begging is starting early this time?" he said gleefully. "We've only just started and I'm already having a blast!"

Without warning he dragged her towards the bed and threw her onto it. Before she could do anything, he flipped her on her stomach and unzipped her dress, pulling it carelessly off her and chucking it behind him. She felt him straddle her, pinning her to the bed. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling it down from the neat up-do as he pushed her face into the pillow. She cried out in pain as she felt him sink his teeth into her shoulder, hard enough to break the skin. He was hurting her, and she hated herself for enjoying it so much.

"So, darling," he whispered in her ear, nibbling on her earlobe between words. "What am I to do with you first? I could to  _anything_ , couldn't I? And you couldn't stop me even if you wanted to... and we both know you don't want me to."

It was true. He could do anything to her and she wouldn't stop him, no matter how humiliating, no matter how much he made it hurt. It was only for him that she would let herself be treated this way. It was like the way she treated her more masochistic clients, only without the cash incentive. Jim Moriarty knew what she liked.

His firm grip on her hair was still pushing her face into the pillow, and she was starting to find it difficult to breath. His free hand began to roam over her body, between her quivering legs. A fingertip brushed lightly against the hot damp patch forming at the crotch of her knickers, and a satisfied chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"Oh, Ms Adler, you do flatter me so," he said, and she could almost hear the smirk in his voice. "One thing at a time though, my dear."

He flipped her over on her back, his eyes racking over her body as she took a much needed gasp of breathe. He was still fully clothed and she wanted so much to just rip that well tailored suit off, but even without restraints she was unable to move, unable to touch. The power was entirely in his hands.

"My, my, my," he tutted, shaking his head. "You've healed since our last play time. You're all shiny and new, and you know I just can't have that. How else am I supposed to know who you belong to?"

His hands moved up her bare stomach, over her breasts and around her back, and she instinctively arched upwards to he could unhook her bra and take it off her. He then hooked his thumbs around the waistband of her lacy black knickers and pulled them slowly off of her, sniffing the wet patch with relish before they joined the dress and bra on the floor. His eyes racked over her naked and slightly trembling body, over her round pert breasts and lingering on her shaved vulva, flushed and swollen with arousal. She was sure he was mapping her out like he always did, planning where he would leave his marks on her. A shiver ran down her spine, a mixture of fear, anticipation, excitement and revulsion – revulsion at herself for letting him do this to her, for  _wanting_  him to.

"I have a little something special planned for you, darling," he said with a grin as he took off his jacket. "But that can wait until a little bit later. First things first."

She knew what was coming. It was always like this. She would have to earn the right to get anything from him, she would have to let him use her completely, take everything from her until there was nothing left. Only then would he make it worth her while, make her scream with pleasure instead of pain. But, as he said, first things first.

She watched him, rooted to the spot on the bed as if he was still pinning her down, as he got up and took his suit off, laying every item of clothing on the nearest chair with much more care than he had done with any of her clothes. She didn't let herself stare at his naked body until she was sure he wouldn't catch her – he was subtly toned and beautiful, and his thick erection made her mouth water. She averted her gaze once he got back to bed, climbing over her until his dripping hard on was right in front of her face.

"You know what to do, dear."

She opened her mouth obediently as he tangled his fingers tightly in her hair and pushed his cock into her needy mouth. He thrust into her mouth, slowly at first but steadily faster, as she sucked and licked, doing everything that she knew he liked until her jaw ached. She relaxed her throat as he fucked her face, tears stinging her eyes and her arousal almost painful. He held onto the back of her head with a vicious grip, grunting and groaning out curses as he mercilessly used her mouth. She held onto his hips, encouraging him, taking him as deeply down her throat as her gag reflex would allow. He suddenly pulled his cock out of her mouth with an obscene  _pop,_ pumping it in his hand while his other hand held tightly onto her hair. She opened her mouth and closed her eyes in anticipation as finally, with an animalist moan, he came hard all over her face, filling her mouth, coating her in hot ropes of his seed until he was spent.

He collapsed beside her, catching his breath, as she swallowed his load. She could feel the rest of his come drying uncomfortably on her skin. She knew he wouldn't let her clean herself up until after he had gone. He liked her like this, messed up and dirty.

"Always a pleasure," he finally said with a chuckle, sitting up. "You're ever so good at that, darling. But then I suppose the old 9-to-5 offers up a lot of opportunities to practice that particular skill."

She didn't say anything, and he didn't expect her to. Even if she could think of a response, she probably wouldn't have been able to say much anyway. Her jaw hurt and her throat felt sore and used. The pressure, the desperate need for her own release was making her whole body ache. She wanted him to make her come so much she could have cried. But they weren't quite there yet.

"On your hands and knees, Alder," he said almost casually, getting up off the bed and stretching.

Irene did as she was told, getting on her hands and knees on the bed so her arse was on display. She couldn't see him, but she didn't have to turn around to know that he was walking to her dresser and picking up her riding crop.

"Time for some punishment, I think," he said. "I'm sure you've done at least one thing since our last play time to warrant a good spanking. Who hasn't, after all?"

Without another word, he cracked the riding crop right against her arse cheeks, hard and sharp. She cried out, the stinging pain coursing through her entire body, before he whipped her again and again, each time harder than the last. Tears ran down her face as he punished her with relish, whipping her arse cheeks until her skin was red raw. He moved forward and started to whip her back, each lash leaving a long, painful welt, before he pushed her down onto her horribly sore back and, with a malicious laugh, started to whip her stomach.

Irene hated herself, truly loathed herself for being so impossibly turned on. It was torture – pure, delicious torture. She wished he would stop, but she also never wanted it to end. When he had finally had his fill of his punishment her whole body hurt, tears streaked her cheeks, and she was so wet that her inner thighs felt sticky.

"I think you deserve a treat, darling," he said with the biggest smile on his face. "But first I think it's time for that special little something I planned just for you."

He put her riding crop back on her dresser, and then went to where he had left his suit. After fishing around in the pocket of his jacket, he took out a silver handled switchblade. Irene's heart skipped a beat.

"Oh God... oh God no," she whispered, panicking. "Jim, please don't..."

Jim rolled his eyes as he crawled back onto the bed. "Oh, sweetheart, don't you worry your pretty little head. Killing you would be a waste. No, no, no, my dear... I'm just going to give you a little  _present_."

He spread her legs, smirking at just how wet she was, and slowly ran his hands over her thighs. Her skin was scorching hot and glowing with sweat, his touch enough to make her toes curl. She probably could have come on command. He flipped the switchblade open, the action making her tremble with fear. His right hand held the knife while his left stroked up her inner thigh, so close to where she needed him to be but never close enough.

"Relax, darling," he whispered, before he brought the blade down to her skin. She hissed in pain as he cut into her inner thigh, only just deep enough to drawn blood but not deep enough to do any serious damage. Fresh tears stung her eyes again as he dragged the knife slowly across her skin. She was afraid to look at what he was doing to her, but when she finally opened her eyes and looked down she let out a gasp.

Cut into her skin were the letters  _JM,_  oozing beads of bright red blood. Before the blood could start to drip down her thigh he lowered his head and dragged his tongue over the fresh wound, stemming the flow of blood with his saliva. He hooked her leg over his shoulder, licking indulgently at the cut her had made before he finally dipped his tongue into her hot wet cunt. Irene moaned so loudly it was practically a scream. Oh God, she needed this so badly. She threw her head back against the pillow as he licked her, pushing his tongue deep inside her folds while his fingers rubbed her swollen clit hard and fast. It didn't take much. She'd been on the edge for what felt like forever. In no time at all she was coming hard all over his face, screaming his name as her aching body convulsed on the bed.

She was still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm when he flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her up onto her knees. She could barely hold herself up as he pushed his cock into her oversensitive cunt, not even giving her a chance to get used to the intrusion. He held tightly onto her hips, so tightly he was sure to leave bruises, and slammed into her hard and fast, grunting and swearing under his breath.

"Oh  _yes_ , Irene," he growled, slapping her arse as he fucked her hard. "Ohh yeah, fucking take it... take it, you filthy fucking whore... you fucking love it, don't you, my dear? I'm making it hurt and  _you fucking love it!_ "

"Yes!" she screamed, backing into him, wanting more. "Yes, I do! Oh God, Jim, I  _do_  fucking love it! Don't stop – don't –  _ahh –_  please don't stop!"

He slapped her arse again, hard enough to leave a handprint, and pulled out of her for a split second so he could flip her onto her back, hooking her legs up onto his shoulders and practically bending her in half as he continued to pound into her, hard and fierce and unrelenting. She could feel her second orgasm building up inside her. She clung onto the headboard with both hands, so hard that her knuckles turned white, screaming the house down, begging him to fuck her harder, to never, ever stop. She loved him and hated him and needed him more than anything else in the world.

His thrusts became messy and erratic, until finally he came deep inside her with a loud moan. The feel of him erupting inside her, filling her up, was enough to make her come for the second time, this orgasm feeling even more intense than the first, like the pleasure was swelling right from the very middle of herself to the tips of her fingers. There was no one else that could do this to her, no one else.

Every muscle of her body ached and the welts and bruises on her body stung, especially the  _JM_  cut into her inner thigh. Jim pressed his lips against hers in a surprisingly gentle kiss, their first and only kiss of the evening, before he collapsed beside her on the bed and tried to catch his breath. She was so exhausted that she could hardly move. As much as she wanted him to stay, all she could do was lie there, his come slowly dripping out of her sore, used cunt, and watch as he got up and put his clothes back on. He barely spared her a glance until he was fully clothed again, and he looked down at her dirty, bruised, wrecked body – his handiwork, his masterpiece – with a satisfied smirk.

"Until next time, my dear."

She closed her eyes as he left, hating that he was leaving her and hating herself for wishing that he would stay. Of course he wouldn't stay. He never did, and even if she had the courage to ask him to she knew he never would. It would be too much like actual intimacy. The first and only kiss that came at the end of every play time was about as intimate as he got. Those brief kisses were the least violent thing that he did to her, but they probably hurt the most.

The next time Irene opened her eyes a few hours had passed. She hadn't even realised that she'd fallen asleep. She dragged herself out of bed, every inch of her body in agony, and made her way to the bathroom. After a much needed shower she examined herself in the full length mirror, finding every one of his marks. The  _JM_ cut into her inner thigh was already starting to heal. The scar would probably never really fade. She knew he had done it not just to mark her like with his bites and bruises, but to show her that she was his and he was hers. It was a mark of ownership that went both ways. In a strange and twisted kind of way, Jim Moriarty had done something inadvertently romantic. Irene smiled. She couldn't wait until their next play time.


End file.
